


A Clockwork Card Game

by Apothecary



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, I didn't choose the institutionalization of crime the institutionalization of crime chose me, The Midnight Crew - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apothecary/pseuds/Apothecary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You made this town what it is after all. Wasn't nothin' but a bunch of dust and rocks before you got here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bring Back The Horrorshow

The crime scene was petty before him. He had a knack in the worst kind of way. He scratched the felt of pool tables and ran the legs off the numbers. It had been hell and high water and when he broke the surface there was no turning back.

The cruel irony about work is that it never stops; that you work to fuel activities you never do, clothes you never wear, and things you never use. Everyday he passed men on the street looking beaten down, overcome and beyond repair. He used to feel superior to them.

Used to?

He still did. His pace increased at each trudging bovine worker who shared his air. The city's beat became louder to him with the whine of their shoes and squeaks of their leather. He shook his head but did not actively pity them. He wasn't acquainted with pity. Life had handed him a deck of emotions, and he hadn't found pity in the stack once.

He pushed away the feeling that frightened him about them. It wasn't out of concern for their meaningless lives, for their boring existence. He was terrified, deep down somewhere where the alcohol couldn't touch, that he was one of them in a finer suit and a faster car. He had climbed the ladder, sort of, hadn't he? And now that he was at the top where he imagined he would look down, all he could see was higher up.

It was at these moments of horrific tragedy that Spades Slick found himself the most violent. It was a process, he might have concluded, if concluding hadn't been counter active to the process. He abandoned the warmth of his apartments and took to the briskly cold streets. He turned his collar up against the cold, walking in shadows between oil lamps. His wont was to walk forever, or at least until he had narrowed his mind down to one thought. On some nights, he walked until he concluded that he wanted to be warm worse than anything else. This became his paramount thought. Warmth was an objective he could meet. It was both the euphoria of success, as well as the clarity brought to the mind that pushed Slick out onto the sidewalk in search of direction. There were over cast nights, storms that brewed and sparked, that fed into him an anger like a jaguar licking its teeth. It was on these nights that his value was not to get warm. It was much more simple than that.

It was a field of electricity that cracked overhead on the night that he should have wanted to be warm. He pulled at his suit sleeves and smoothed his hair a thousand times. Several hours before, he had been before a fire, reveling in his pristine capture. He wasn't free to do what he pleased; he thought he would be by now. He had to /manage/ things. He had to make plans. It was beginning to feel like work.

It had to change.

"I miss the days we ran from the law," he said quietly. "I miss the challenge. That was the time to be a man," he nursed a bourbon for a while before adding "It's all too easy now. We've got pay books and pay rolls and more money that we cant spend. I have half a mind to burn it all down." he watched the liquid in his glass move. "To start from the beginning, before we were a /company/ and when we were a gang." The men at the door and a few at the table behind them began to look uncomfortable, which was appropriate because they certainly wouldn't drop eaves on their leader. Droog looked into the fire without reply. The shadows crawled over his wind burned and scar riddled face.

"You've worked for this, boss," he said at last. "We aren't kids anymore." Slick set his jaw out of stubborn spite. 

"No, and what a shame we aren't," he let the words hang in the air. "Do you think they've forgotten about us?" his gut clenched without due order, and a face flickered in the fire. "Do you suppose we could remind them just who it is we are? What the /fuck/ we can do?" he hadn't intended to shout. Five pairs of eyes watched him from the corners of the room. His smile flashed like knives. "Get the boys together, Diamonds. Just our old gang." he stood and swept from the fireplace, tossing his empty glass over his shoulder to break upon the carpet. "I want a real horrorshow of an evening, and none of these sons of bitches can give it to me," the doormen looked more relieved than hurt.

Clubs Deuce looked skeptical. "Don't we already have a museum heist going on in-"  
"In November yes I know!" Spades snapped. "Don't tell me dates off a calendar like a secretary or I'll start dressing you like a fit dame to match. This isn't even the same. I don't want to steal the art," he explained, delight glinting in his eyes. "I want to destroy it," he was always so proud of his ideas. "Ribbon it, burn it, piss on it. Just for the fucking hell of it!" his breath was labored. There was no excitement around him. "Hearts, you cant tell me-"

"I don't see the cost benefit here," it was the personal hell of one Spades Slick. A team that had once valued casualty rates and anarchy was hinging an operation on a cost benefit analysis. 'I shouldn't even know what that is,' he thought. 'Maybe I'll confess to a murder I never committed, and watch them try to figure it out. I'll make a grandiose adventure and force them all down it if they want to find me, the whole damn bureau. That would bring it back, the old flash and flame. 

'It occurred to him then, as it quite often did, that he had not lived his life the way he should have. He would then remember how perfect his whole life had been, and he immediately banished this bizarre idea.'


	2. Walk It Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change your shoes, Slick. We don't want you leaving footprints in the snow.

Flash Flash Flash

"Clean yourself up," Droog stopped Slick with a hand to his chest. Clubs pulled a box out of the back of the Super. He handed out shoes. Slick stared at the leather spats offered to him. 

"So you don't leave footprints, Slick," he stammered. "You're, you're leaving red footprints..." 

At least the car drove the same way. Some copper even had the decency to chase them for a few blocks. Slick rounded the Ford into a spot in front of Sinners Welcome, and the Interceptor swung in next to them. 

"Evening, Miles." 

"Droog," the officer tipped his hat. Slick punched a dent in his pullet proof door.

The bartender nodded at them as they walked in with that subtle sort of nod that every bartender in the city had, which is to say he tucked down and under the bar to better his grasp on the pump action 12 gauge shotgun hidden next to an assortment of off-white rags. Spades Slick liked to see it happen. He swept his coat off and tossed it to the door man, who was in fact a fellow customer who just so happened to be wearing a cheap suit and standing next to the door. It was an honest mistake, and one that no one would ever bring to his attention. Deuce and Boxcars rushed past him, sweeping through the door leading to the poker room. Slick rolled his eyes and gritted a set of filed teeth. 'I'm working with children,' he thought.

Their seats were vacant. The bartender, now erect but watching them wearily, poured two heavy bottom glasses, dropping four ice cubes into each with painful pointedness. Slick couldn't be discontent with such service. He lifted the glass and swished it until the contents were as muddled as his thoughts.

"That was a good one," he said, trying to flash a toothy grin and managing more of a grimace. "Proper horrorshow, too. I liked the bit-" he glanced at Droog and growled. "Are you even listening to me?" Droog nodded, running his tongue over his teeth. His drink remained untouched.

"That was sloppy, boss." he said. "We shouldn't have left those guards there. We could have just paid them off-"

"They were in the way!" Slick snapped, slamming his palm flat against the counter. "That's how you deal with guards, Droogie. I remember a time when a certain gang of ill intented boys could cut and slash a thousand throats in a night without batting a pretty eyelash. Maybe I'm remembering someone else," he curled a lip back and applied drink to the headache. Droog said nothing.

Gods had it felt good. He always forgot the sound, in the way that one can forget the taste of rain or the smell of really good biscuits until the scent makes itself present again. His fingers had dug into the sides of the guard's neck, pressing, the skin holding until there was almost an audible _snap_ , then his fingers rushed in past warm tissue and membranes that gave in with the faintest of tensions. Blood oozed out, bathing his palms. Then his fingers met bone, and he felt his spine shake.

It wasn't out of some sick perverse kink, he told himself. It was like seeing something you hadn't in a long time, after eating a favorite dish, drinking a favored scotch. He missed how warm it was, the pulsating choke he could actually _feel_ , but he hadn't missed the dry cleaning bills.

He hadn't missed the scouring either. Or filing his finger prints off. There was something about sirens that would always make his heart beat a little faster, but lately, they were the _only_ things that did.

Clubs came out of the poker room looking chipper. He placed a few small bills on the counter and ordered himself a drink. 

"It is a bit messy, isn't it," he said almost to himself, tugging on his suit jacket sleeves. "I hadn't exactly forgotten," he assured no one in particular. "It's just been awhile, is all," his voice drifted off somewhere down in the depths of his glass. "I almost want to get caught. I haven't been interrogated in ages-"

"What's eatin' you?" Diamonds snapped, snapping a fixed glare on his boss. "We have it good here. Things run smooth like. We spend _years_ doing what we did tonight to get to where we are now and you want to change that? You're the idea man, Slick, but you've had better ones than this."

Clubs brought him ice for his knuckles. "Why'd you punch Droog, boss? You shouldn'na done that. Doesn't do no body no good to go around punchin' our own." Slick ignored him. "Are you coming, boss?" Deuce held out his coat, which the faux doorman had left on the floor. Someone had stepped on it.

"I'll walk." Slick said, snatching his hat off the counter and coat. He shoved his arms into it in a frustrated agitation and the snow crunched under his boots. He heard protests from his crew and kept walking, pulling on gloves and wedging his hat more securely against the wind. In some other part of the city people were laughing. He turned the corner away from the sound. Red and blue lights passed him by and for nothing but old habit, he turned into an alley and pressed himself against a building. He tried to light a cigarette. The flame was the brightest thing in the alley; on the street, in the night. 

He couldn't remember when he had started smoking.


	3. Funny Like Haha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They give you a name and a badge, but that don't make you a cop, son.

Slick picked his teeth with a pocket knife. The metal stung his lips for the cold, and snow flakes were collecting on the brim of his hat. The bar was ten minutes from last call and by any luck things would start getting punchy. He stood across the street, listening for the welcome sounds of drunk men making agitated mistakes. The brick wall was cold against his shoulder, but he couldn’t be brought to notice. If he had tried at all, he wouldn’t have been able to remember the last time he had done anything alone. He had been working with the Crew for years, and had drunk away most of the years before. His solo career was more well remembered by the one eyed men and the ladies in red. 

He dropped the knife into his coat pocket and removed a roll of pennies. He tossed it from hand to hand until it felt right rolled up in his fist. His freshly cleaned, filed teeth glimmered maliciously. He ran dirty nails through the scraggle of hair on is narrow chin. A crash and a shout came from across the street, and Spades Slick made his entrance. 

It was a crowd of young kids, boys really. Two gangs of them, looking prepped and clean behind the ears. Spades was disappointed, but threw himself into the brawl half heartedly none the less. The kids were bigger than he remembered being at their age. They were slower, though. He threw punches and kicked at legs. A moon faced mountain of a boy looked at him like the morning sun and before he could blink the man dressed all in black cracked his nose sharply to the right. One managed to clip him under the ribcage, but it hardly counted; the entire body attached to the fist had been thrown forcibly at the bar and had caught Slick by crossfire. He wouldn’t account for this until much later. The kid landed on the bar and would have fallen safely behind the counter, but his college sweater and ironed kakis did nothing but piss Spade off. He grabbed the kid under the arms and drug him back. The blond looked up at him with panicked eyes and a busted lip. His skin was peppered with acne. Loafered feet scrambled for a footing on the slippery floor. He had no business being anywhere near a bar. 

‘You think you’re too good for a bar fight?” Slick growled into the kid’s pretty face. He started to stammer but found himself in more of a listening mood after a fist took the words off his tongue. He had dressed for the occasion, and had no reservations about blood stains. He hit the kid again, educating him on the proper means of gaining an education. ‘Aint nothing you read in those books that I don’t know! I learned it for myself, is what makes me better.’ Behind him a buzzing silence fell. In the whites of the blond’s eyes Slick saw red and blue lights reflecting. He spat on the ‘Thick blood sweater,’ and drifted towards the back of the bar. 

Most of the kids made a mad dash for the back exit, shouting and hollering as if they’d been raised to think that policemen were under their beds at night. Slick pushed is way into the thicket and did his best to ride the crowd out. He couldn’t help but laugh. He counted two busted noses, maybe three. Most of them would have bruised knuckles in the morning. It was pathetic. ‘Not in my day,’ he muttered, slipping along side the building and heading towards an alley the younger men had overlooked. ‘Back in my day you didn’t leave a bar with all the teeth you came in with.’ The brawl should have made him feel better; better than men ten years younger than he, but he felt old. He had felt disconnected from the familiarity of his favorite past time. ‘Busting heads aint what it used to be,’ he lit a cigarette and shrugged out of his coat. The fight had riled up his blood, if nothing else. His knuckles felt almost as if they had been popped back into place. Upon examination, though, he determined by the dim alley light that they weren’t even bleeding. He cursed and turned down the street towards the next bar he could think of.

‘Hey!’ a voice broke the urban silence. Slick kept walking for three paces before the voice continued. ‘You there! In black! I need to talk to you, sir!’ Slick stopped short and shook his head. 

‘I’m sorry officer,’ he said, turning over his shoulder. ‘You clearly have the wrong man.’ 

‘I don’t have anyone wrong, sir. I just want to talk to you.’ A young officer, badge still smoking from the press, stood a healthy four feet from Spade. ‘Were you at the bar fight back there?’

‘Me?’ a face carved out of scar tissue and mother’s nightmares fell in a pseudo-innocent light. ‘Officer you must be mistaken.’ And new apparently, he thought. He hadn’t been stopped by an officer in… A smile spread across his face. ‘I _was_ the bar fight back there.’ He rolled the cigarette to the other side of his mouth. ‘What is it that you’re gonna do about it?’ The young policeman looked horrified. He shivered against the cold and put his hand on his belt. 

‘W-well, sir, I have to bring you down to the station. Some folks got hurt back there and-‘

‘That’s the idea, officer.’ Slick said, stepping closer. Smoke from his cigarette mixed with the copper’s frozen breath. Snow drifted between them. ‘But aint no body dead, and I don’t want to hear lip out of you until someone is. If I’m gonna get busted it wont be for a few fuggin runny noses on kids with curfews.’ He turned on his heel and continued down the street. As if on cue the copper called after him. 

‘Sir! I’m, I’m sorry, sir, but you don’t get to choose what crimes you’re arrested for-’ Spades Slick whirled on him and nearly stepped over him in an attempt to loom. Even the snow didn’t have room to fall between them. 

‘Do you know who I am, son?’ he asked, fire and brimstone in his eyes. The young man’s eyes widened and ran across Slick’s face. The gangster gave him a good long look to remember. The long scar across his left eye, his crooked nose and winning smile. He wanted him to remember. His was a face that was hard to forget.

‘As far as I’m concerned, sir, you’re a bar fighter, and until proven otherwise I’m going to treat you like one. N-now you need to come with me, sir.’ Slick hadn’t felt so good in weeks. 

 

‘Deuce,’ Boxcars called from another room. The driver rose, laying his cards on his chair to keep them from being seen by Droog, who sat across from him. He turned the corner and saw his fellow banging his head against the telephone. 

‘Hearts?’ Deuce asked, reaching for him out of concern. ‘What’s-‘

‘I need you to drive down to the station and pick up Slick.’ Hearts Boxcars grumbled, so low that Deuce was sure he hadn’t heard him right. 

‘That’s, that’s funny, Hearts. See, it sounded like you said-‘

‘I aint foolin,’ he said, leaning his head against the receiver. ‘The mudbrain got himself arrested in a bar fight.’ A string of curses followed. Droog groaned from the parlor. By the time Deuce had his coat on, the two were muttering to each other.   
‘I’m off then, I’ll be back in an hour,’ he said. Neither of the Crew members responded. ‘Off to get the boss…’ 

‘Yeah,’ Droog said, shooting him a look with more punch than either of his meaty fists. ‘You go get the _boss_.”

If he hadn’t known what he looked like, Deuce would have been able to pick Spades Slick out of the crowded jail by the beaming smile on his face. He even tipped the officer who gave him his coat back. Slick hummed a song under his breath on the way back to the house. Deuce knew better than to ask. 

‘Isn’t it a great night?’ the Crew leader said to no one, staring out the window at the snow. He hadn’t felt so light in ages. He would sleep well, he thought. There was something about going to bed sore that made sleep come a little easier.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a part of an RP and I just want to make it clear that I will only post my own work and that the work of the woman who wrote this with me will be respected as her own property.


End file.
